


Hang 'Em High

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belts, Comeplay, Community: homebrewbingo, Facials, Fetish, Leather Kink, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once in a while, Dean just needed some time alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang 'Em High

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using this for the "western scenarios/fetishization" square on my homebrewbingo card.

It was the smell that really got him.

 

 _Leather_. Dean hardly had a choice about it. His first sense memory was hugging his dad when he came home from work, sweaty and warm with the scent of honest labor. Dean's nose would slot into the groove between his father's collar and his heavy cotton shirt, the warm leather of his jacket brushing against Dean's cheek. Sweat, grease, hops and lager and underneath it all, that rich leather, soft and gruff at the same time like the slide of his father's stubble against his face. "How's my little man today? You hold down the fort?"

 

Even the smoke and screams of that night couldn't erase it, not completely. Dean had clung to his father, Sam squirming and bawling in his arms as Dean had rubbed his tear-streaked face against the familiar scent. Dean had to be big now, had to be a man and take care of Sammy. This is what men smelled like.

 

Other kids' houses smelled like cinnamon rolls or maternal clouds of bleach and vacuum cleaner ozone, but not Dean's. More nights than not were spent contorting himself around Sam's bony little body, wriggling into the bench seat of the Chevy until he passed out on a makeshift sweatshirt pillow with his face pressed warm and sticky against the seat back.

 

He'd inherited every stretched, worn inch of it, shrugging on his father's jacket and reupholstering those damn seats so many times he knew every stitch by heart. Leather was in his blood.

 

It had been a simple enough case, salt and burn at a tack shop and stable in Wyoming. The case of the Lucky Horseshoe, and it had been Sam who'd smoked the old bastard. The whole thing had felt a little too Hardy Boys for Dean's taste, although the grateful blonde behind the counter had mollified the blow to his ego. A sideways look from her father had set his jail bait alarm ringing, and no pussy on earth was worth crossing a dude who castrated horses in a day's work.

 

Dean had smoothed things over with a small purchase, at a generous discount from Barely Legal, and left with a new belt and his nuts still firmly attached to his body. He'd given Sam the bed by the door and told him he was making it an early night, long-held code for "I need some alone-time." Last week Dean had spent three hours in a goddamn Panera Bread so Sam could do whatever the fuck he did when he jerked off, probably imagining holding hands and letting some girl braid his hair. There were just some things he really didn't need to know.

 

And there were definitely things Sam did not need to know. Dean got enough flack about cowboy movies and his crush on Clint Eastwood as it was.

 

Dean learned a long time ago not to look at these things too closely, how something that smells like his dad and his car makes him spring an insta-boner and nut so hard he hit his face if he angled it right. There were far too many shades of Freud in there and Dean was more than happy to leave that shit buried deep down where it belonged.

 

And it wasn't about thinking, just the opposite. Finally alone, Dean slid the belt out of his bag and ran it over his fingers, closing his eyes and feeling the pebbled scrape of it over his knuckles. Wrapping it around his fist twice, Dean flexed his hand and heard the soft creak, too new to bend easily. And it smelled so fucking good, too, sharp and rich and brand new. Dean's throat clicked as he swallowed, licking his lips before parting them a hairsbreadth.

 

He felt his dick start to strain under his boxer briefs, thickening as he cupped it beneath his hand. Dean brought his belt-wrapped knuckles to his mouth, breathing deeply and sliding the leather against his lips in time with the kneading of his other hand. His breath condensed against the belt, warm and damp enough to make the leather slowly mold to his hand as he ground down against his hard-on.

 

It was hard to tell where the sweat on his palm started and the precome leaking out of his dick ended but it just made it better, the fabric catching soft against his balls and tugging delicate skin in rhythm with the brush of the belt against his lips. It was getting maddening, each swipe and pass tugging and teasing until he gave in, hiked his hips up to tug his shorts down to mid-thigh. 

 

He matched the first close of his palm around his cock with an open mouth, letting his tongue snake out to trace over the smooth leather. It was warm from his hand, tannic and slick as he flattened his tongue and dragged it against the grain. Dean stroked himself slowly, root to tip to squeeze out a fat drop of precome and smear it over the head with his thumb. He liked it just wet enough to catch, friction burning to the point of cringing pleasure. It was good like that, each slip of his fist making his teeth set into the raw edge of the belt.

 

When Dean had more time, or the rare luxury of a separate room, he could do this for hours, tease himself out until he had sweat beaded on his forehead and lips chafed raw and red. Sometimes he'd slip it around his head, threading the loose end through the buckle and drawing it tight enough to pinch his cheeks in and dig the buckle into the side of his mouth. He let himself moan louder when it was like that, forgiving leather swallowing his guttural sigh as he came all over his chest.

 

But Dean wasn't a dick, and by his own estimate he was nearing the end of his reasonable “get the fuck out, Sammy,” request time. There was one last thing he needed to do, though, hadn't been able to get it out of his mind for days. Dean opened his eyes and slowly inched up the bed, dragging half the top sheet to bunch up under his back. 

 

It wasn't the most comfortable thing, but Dean had gotten used to the weird angle and the way his stomach bunched up as he hitched his hips up along the headboard. He settled at an angle just high enough to make sure he'd get what he wanted without cramping his neck too much. It had been a while, and Dean knew he wouldn't have to work too hard tonight.

 

Letting out a long sigh, Dean closed his eyes again, taking a few tentative strokes before pressing his fist back to his mouth. His lips closed over the belt, rough edges rubbing flush with his mouth as he sucked hard and wet. A thin trail of spit ran out from the corner of his mouth to run down his neck, already sweat-damp and flushed from his position. 

 

Mouth, hand, tongue, cock, the ache of his neck, and the warm rush of blood to his face. Dean felt it all until there wasn't any room left inside him for words or worries, mind cottony soft and cloud-blank with each pull of his hand, each push of spit against the softened leather in his mouth. 

 

Dean's mouth watered more as a cloudy line of precome leaked down to land on his chest, sliding into the divot between his pecs. Dean caught the last of it and smoothed it onto his cock, pumping faster and twisting his wrist every few strokes until he felt the tell-tale tension in his belly, snaking down to pull his nuts in close and tight, close, so close he could feel it coiling like a spring.

 

Legs shaking and breath coming out in short, furious puffs through his nose, Dean bit down on the belt one last time before pulling his hand back just in time. He let out a long, choked-off grunt, opening his mouth and angling his dick until he felt the first hot stripe of come land on his cheek, turning his head to catch the next familiar spurts of himself, warm and welcome on his tongue.

 

He stayed like that as long as he dared, rolling it on his tongue and savoring the salty taste as he slid down onto his back. By the time Sam came back he'd be showered and sprawled on the bed, a fresh pair of boxers and the old holey t-shirt he liked to sleep in. He'd smirk as Sam opened the door just far enough to make sure he wasn't gonna see anything puke-worthy, a fair plan after that time in Freemont. There were just things Sam didn't need to know. Once Sam was satisfied that he wouldn't be re-scarred for life they'd watch some TV, Sam would fuck around on the computer and look for new cases. They'd pack in for the night and start off tomorrow, hunting things, saving people, Impala, pie and leather jacket, the family business.

 

But this final five minutes, this was just Dean's. His head felt clear and fuzzy at the same time, humming like a well-kept engine with the sheer contentment of loving his body and knowing how to make it tick. It might not be home for everyone, but it made him feel safe, loved, well-worn and lived in, broken-in and fitted perfectly to the shape of the man inside. Dean sighed and unfurled the belt from his hand, smiling as he curled it into a neat circle and got up to clean himself up before Sam came home.

 

 


End file.
